


shower me with your affection instead

by megatronn



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, EXCEPT ITS NOT REALLY ANGST, Fluff, I think this counts as fluff?, Jealousy, Love Confessions, M/M, MAYBE LIKE a teensy tiny bit but not really, i don't know how to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 14:51:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6055621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megatronn/pseuds/megatronn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre is not prone and has never been prone to bouts of jealousy, but Enjolras is decidedly the exception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shower me with your affection instead

**Author's Note:**

> Ha, this is my first Combeferre/Enjolras fic. But I love them so much. I couldn't help it. 
> 
> As always, any and all critique is welcome. :D

 Resentment is not becoming. It is unusual for him to act in such a way.

 Combeferre likes to think himself a man, self aware. So he knows, when he says, ‘Enjolras, I am not your servant, I do not exist to please you,’ in response to Enjolras’ request to have Combeferre talk to the various other revolutionary groups for their latest rally is unwarranted.

 It humbles him, to know that Enjolras trusts him with this when Bahorel is away. He cannot still, help the fact that watching Enjolras shower Feuilly with his affection and attention all afternoon has made him bitter, and his thoughts unkind.

 Combeferre feels guilty, when he sees the hurt that crosses Enjolras’ face. But Combeferre, in this particularly instance, does not feel generous enough to apologise. His pride will not let him.

 He knows he is being irrational, but after having held Enjolras’ attention for so long, he is unused to the way sharing it makes him feel. He knows, still, that what he doled out was an insult, the likes of which is unheard off between friends such as them.

 Combeferre is glad no one else was in the vicinity, so as to hear the grievous utterance.

 Enjolras is about to speak, when Courfeyrac calls to him, and he is swept up in discussion of the Amis’ next rally. Wonderful Courfeyrac, who, Combeferre is certain, was able to identify the discontent in the air. He is thankful, for friends so perceptive.

 Turning  to his books on medicine, Combeferre continues studying for the exam he has tomorrow, he waits then, for his turn until the end of the meeting, to talk to their leader.

 

**

It is a long, slow, evening, but finally, their meeting comes to an end. Their group of friends leave, likely ushered out by Courfeyrac, and as it remains, it is only the two of them.

 ‘Combeferre, what is – ’

 ‘Forgive me for – ’

 They speak together, and it is enough to give them both pause. Combeferre, who was uncertain as to how to go about his apology, is more sure now, when both he and Enjolras smile at the blunder.

 ‘Allow me to speak first, Enjolras.’ He says, watching the bright eyed revolutionary stare at him in earnest.

 ‘Of course, Combeferre.’

 ‘Forgive me for how tremendously I insulted you today, mon amis. You mean a great deal to me, I was frustrated and took out my unwarranted anger on you. I do not - I do not wish for my blunder to change our friendship in anyway.’ He waits then, for Enjolras’ reply.

 ‘Of course not Combeferre!’ The affront in his voice is genuine, ‘We have had too long a friendship for this. I myself, on occasion have insulted you in a similar manner. All is forgiven, Combeferre, how could you ever think otherwise?’ It seems that is all there is left to say, but Combeferre knows his friend, there is still more that Enjolras wishes to speak.

 ‘I would just – I would just like to know what is it that upset you so? I consider us close, and I do not wish to see you sad.’ He says, his eyes bright and eager, the light from the lamps cast his face in shadows that serve only to call attention to his angelic features, not helped by the halo that the light forms around his head.

 Combeferre is not prone to sentimentalities, but there is no denying that Enjolras is a beautiful man.

 ‘Think nothing of it Enjolras, it was foolish of me. Although I loathe to say it, a rational mind, is, on occasion, prone to irrationality.’

 Enjolras does not seem to be deterred, ‘It might help you to speak of it Combeferre, and maybe I can help you the next time you are prone to these bouts of irrationality, as you say.’

 ‘Very well, but please do not make light of it.’ He says, and knows immediately that it is the wrong thing to say, if Enjolras’ cry of ‘Combeferre!’ is anything to go by.

 ‘This is the second time in the same day that I am asking for your forgiveness. It seems that emotions and sentimentality have made a fool out of me.' Combeferre pauses then, 'I see now, why you choose not to dally in them, they would only serve to distract you from your fight for Patria.’ he watches Enjolras’ face, the way his brow draws together in confusion, and very carefully collects his words before he speaks again,

 ‘I don’t mean to be crass, Enjolras, but you must realise, the amount of attention you gave to Feuilly today is not something I am used too. Jealousy is a base instinct, and it has no place in our revolution, but I could not help myself. It clouded my judgment, it made me angry. It – it,’ Combeferre hesitates then, not knowing how to go forward with his speech. Combeferre likes to think himself an eloquent man, he feels out of his depth, having to pause so often. Leaving him vulnerable to Enjolras' open, earnest gaze.

 He is glad, when Enjolras takes pity on him and speaks, ‘Combeferre,’ Enjolras’ hand reaches out to touch his cheek, his breathe hitches at such an intimate gesture, ‘Patria is important to me, more so than anything else in my life. It is not something that I wish to lie about,’ the hope that Combeferre had allowed to grow in his chest at Enjolras’ touch falters, ‘But if there were ever a rival for my affection,' he says slowly, as though tasting the words on his tongue, 'It would be you.’

 Enjolras looks up at Combeferre through his lashes, and smiles then, shy, and small, as though they share a secret. And very slowly, as though in a dream, Enjolras moves forward and presses his lips to Combeferre, clearly unused to affection such as this, but Combeferre does not mind. When Enjolras lets out a delicate sigh, Combeferre realises that he has not, in his life, heard a sound more erotic.

 ‘There is no need, dear Combeferre, to harbour this envy in your breast,’ Enjolras’ voice is soft, his hand tender where it cups Combeferre’s cheek, ‘I have always held you in the highest regard.’

 When Enjolras moves forward to touch their lips once more, it is Combeferre who sighs.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, guys!


End file.
